Quiet on the Inside
by Survivah
Summary: Derek finds something out about Stiles. He really, really likes it. A psychos in love story. Sterek. Not AU, rated T for homicidal whatnot.
1. Chapter 1

So... this is kind of violent and stuff. Nothing too explicit, but there are DARK THEMES AAAHHH and Stiles is definitely not his typical cuddly self. Fair warning. Also, there will be twoish more chapters exploring this relationship, but nothing particularly plot heavy.

XXXXX

Derek... had not been expecting this.

It had been a running joke for so long. Stiles, the breakable human, Stiles, 147 pounds of pale skin and fragile bones, silly Stiles, laughing and joking in times of stress because he couldn't do anything else.

Except, apparently, he could.

Two hunters from out of state, big burly guys wearing T-shirts with beer logos lay dead on the forest floor, matching bullet holes right in the center of their foreheads. Little bleeding stamps, courtesy of one Stiles Stilinski.

All 147 pounds of him, standing, back against a tree, arm still outstretched, gun in hand, just in case one of the hunters turned out to be immune to bullet wounds. Stiles' arm didn't shake an inch, and his eyes were steely, a brown as hard as the set of his jaw. Derek had never seen Stiles like this before, and it was enthralling. He looked like an avenging angel, all purpose and power.

Stiles glanced up, cold eyes catching Derek's. He quirked an eyebrow, a silent challenge for Derek to say something about it. Derek didn't.

A clattering sounded from further in the woods, frantic feet slapping against ground, snapping through twigs, until out of the black night branches, the rest of the pack emerged, panting. They took in the corpses, and the gun, and Stiles, and erupted.

"Stiles, are you alright?"

"Are they really dead? Like, really?"

"You okay?"

"What happened?"

"Rough man. It's not your fault. You had to."

"Are you okay?"

Derek watched as the cold Stiles disappeared in a flash, like a glimpse of a foot vanishing behind a corner as it ran away.

"I... killed two people. Holy shit, like holy shit, I don't even... I mean, they were gonna mount your guys' heads on a wall, but yikes. Just... look at 'em. Crazy. That's... crazy."

Derek didn't think the others were paying attention to Stiles' heartbeat, too distracted by his hysterical show, but Derek could hear it beating, calm and slow. Steady.

"I mean, what do we even do with the bodies?" Stiles asked helplessly. "Do you guys know? Like, have we got to find some shovels? Shovels in the middle of the night? Because that's suspicious as all hell. Holy shit, holy shit."

Derek walked forward. "Head back to my house," he barked, "find gasoline, matches, whatever's there. You can find supplies in the shed out back."

The pack stared at him, pale-faced and wide-eyed for a moment, before Isaac nodded. "Yeah, yeah we'll do that."

They all turned to go, but Derek grabbed Stiles' shoulder before he could leave with them. "You've done enough tonight, Stiles. Sit."

They planted themselves on a nearby log, and Stiles' long, pale fingers followed the crevices of the bark, scraping through pockets of dirt and over fields of lumpy mold.

"Crazy night," Stiles breathed. "Like, wow. Was not expecting. Why don't we ever just go bowling? Wouldn't that be a nice pack bonding exercise? No, never mind, you guys are probably great at bowling 'cause the balls are about as heavy as a ping pong ball-"

"Stop it Stiles," Derek cut in.

Stiles fell silent, and his finger stopped moving. He was so _fascinating_, this hidden man brought out in stillness. Why had Derek not seen him before?

Stiles smiled wanly, gazing down at the bodies still cooling among the rotting brown leaves. "How much did you see?"

"Enough," said Derek.

He had walked in on Stiles backed up against a tree, shaking and trembling and babbling, protesting his humanity and playing the scared teenager to the best of his ability, his hand inching towards the back of his waistband the entire time. Then, when the hunters were reassured enough to pocket their own guns and simply tie the boy against a tree, up came Stiles' gun, and out the window went the terrified expression. His mouth had quirked into a brief, heart stopping smirk, then the two hunters were dead on the ground, and Derek was enraptured.

"Enough to know that you feel just fine right now," Derek stated. There was no judgement in his tone. Derek would have done the same thing, just with different methods. There would have been more blood than the two circular holes, for one thing.

"Does that make me heartless?" Stiles asked, "To feel fine?" His tone of voice was odd. Not desperate, not pleading for forgiveness or reassuring words. Merely curious.

"Maybe." It also made him beautiful.

XXXXX

They didn't talk about the night of the hunters after that. Stiles snapped back into his chattering, cheerful self, and Derek was left wondering how much of that night had been real. Stiles had been so strong, so capable, so powerful in that moment. Utterly devoted to his task, no room for fear or even anger.

He was everything Derek wanted to be.

Derek could kill like Stiles, but to be so composed while he did it... Derek wasn't built for that. Derek was made of rage and fire. Stiles made violence an art, he carried it out so gracefully.

But Derek could only catch sight of Stiles the boy. Stiles who laughed during pack meetings and dropped witticisms behind him like breadcrumbs. Twitched during chemistry class. Talked to his father over a carefully made, sodium-free dinner, eying him fondly. Even when he puttered about his room, alone but for the humming of his computer, Stiles seemed perfectly normal, his mask tied on so tightly that Derek started to doubt that he had ever seen it slip.

It made Derek all the more desperate to see where Stiles ended and the other man began. Hovering around Stiles' bedroom window became a habit, something he had to do every night before he could go to sleep and dream of blood in perfect circles on a forehead. If Stiles weren't so constantly surrounded by werewolves with perfect hearing, Derek was fairly certain he would be around Stiles constantly. Stiles wouldn't even have to know. Derek just wanted to be nearby.

But he was nearby often enough that one gray afternoon, when Stiles walked into the forest, blessedly alone, Derek could follow. He had to keep his distance, even though the space in between them ached to be filled. Stiles slipped between trees and bushes, following a path familiar only to him.

After a time, he reached a small clearing, at the center of which lay an overturned stewpot. Derek could smell what lay underneath, and his eyes widened in astonishment. Finally, _finally_, he would see Stiles again. The better one.

Stiles glanced around himself perfunctorily, missing entirely the spot of shadow in which Derek had hidden himself. Satisfied, Stiles flipped over the stewpot, revealing the battered shape of a squirrel, shivering on the forest floor with dozens of straight red lines carved into its body. Derek shifted slightly so he could see Stiles' face properly. There he was, cold and beautiful, lips pulled into a straight line of concentration as he pulled a pocketknife from his coat. With a steady hand, he drew another line straight down the squirrel's spine. Shallow. Enough to keep the squirrel alive, but squirming.

Derek hadn't even realized that he had stepped closer until Stiles glanced up and his hand froze.

Stiles saw Derek taking in the mess scattered beneath Stiles' knees, and Stiles saw something in Derek then. The raging part, the dripping bloody part that Derek usually kept awkwardly tucked away. Stiles _knew_. "Are you going to tell anyone?" he asked, already knowing the answer.

"No." Derek said quickly. Share this? Was Stiles crazy? This would be a secret that he and Derek shared, and Derek had no intention of letting anyone else have it.

"Good." Stiles nodded, and returned to his work, painting minuscule, delicate lines across fur.

"I," Derek began, tensely "I used to just rip their limbs off." Nothing compared to the masterpiece Stiles was creating, but something.

Stiles looked back up at Derek in surprise, raising his eyebrows.

"Your technique is better," Derek muttered. "I wouldn't have the control for it."

Stiles held out a hand, which Derek took immediately. Stiles pulled Derek to the ground, then handed him the knife. "You want to try?" he offered. "I'll show you how."

XXXXX

Derek was happy.

He was so unused to the feeling that it took him some time to recognize it, and some time longer to trust that it wouldn't come back to bite him in the ass. He'd spent a long time, pre-Stiles, wondering what it would be like to be consistently happy. It wasn't so much a constant euphoria humming through his veins, a need to sing or dance or smile like the world wasn't on his shoulders anymore, it was more a contentment that sat warm in his stomach. The feeling that the world wasn't going to drop out underneath his feet if he looked away from the ground for a second.

And it was all because of Stiles. Wonderful, brutal, Stiles.

Stiles who had taken to staying after pack meetings, draped idly across one of the secondhand armchairs they'd used to spruce up the place, and just... being everything Derek wanted.

_"Scott and I used to play cops and robbers," Stiles said on one of those nights. "But our moms made us stop because I would get really violent." He laughed harshly. "Mrs. McCall would always say that I was just too competitive."_

_"You should have seen me roughhousing with-with my siblings," Derek told the ceiling, "it's a good thing that werewolves heal."_

They talked about other things too. When Stiles didn't feel like he needed to disguise himself with floods of words and twists of topics, he was a surprisingly good conversationalist.

_"I'm just saying that if Snookie is having a kid, she should get out of the television business," Derek protested one day, when he and Stiles were lounging on the half of the back porch that was intact._

_"No dude, you can't get as far as Snookie has in TV and just give it all up! It's probably not even a choice for her at this point, she is Snookie, Queen of Reality TV. It doesn't matter what's good for the kid, it matters that Snookie doesn't lose that title, because without the Jersey Shore and whatever, she loses her identity."_

_"That's ridiculous."_

_"I'm not saying it's not, I'm just saying that that's where she's coming from."_

_Derek snorted. "It doesn't matter where she's coming from, I still want to claw her stupid orange skin off whenever I see her on TV."_

_"Whatever man," Stiles scoffed, "you don't even have a TV."_

Stiles, who would wave goodbye to Scott at his door, then text Derek -_come inside, I no ur lurking somewhere nearby-_

Derek would come, through the front door even, when the Sheriff was out, and sit next to Stiles on the couch as he complained.

_"I mean come on! I don't care whether he gets back with his girlfriend or not, but it's getting ridiculous how much time I have to spend sitting next to him going, 'oh yeah man, I'm totally rooting for you.' I have my limits! There's only so long I can pretend to give a damn about people before I want to tear my hair out. Or maybe theirs."_

So Derek was happy. Stiles was filling a void in him that he hadn't known he could fill, and so Derek was happy. And fast becoming addicted. He resented the high school for infringing on his precious time with Stiles, as well as Scott, and the rest of the pack. Stiles would laugh at Derek when he voiced those sentiments, but he also ran a fond hand across Derek's cheek when he did it, so Derek wasn't sure what to think.

Obviously, Derek was infatuated, and Stiles knew it, because he was brilliant, but he also wasn't interested. Derek could smell faint tones of arousal coming off of Stiles when Derek pressed especially close, or took off his shirt for one reason or another, but that didn't mean anything. Stiles thought that Derek was attractive, fine. Almost everyone did. But Stiles heart always kept its same steady pattern. A constant reminder that for all Derek did, Stiles wasn't affected by him.

But Stiles would play with him. Little touches; a graze of fingers along his arm, a hand cupping his shoulder, the tap of a sneakered foot against his underneath the table. They didn't mean anything to Stiles, but Derek found them to be a sort of wonderful torture. Worse (and better,) was when Stiles would... _say things._

_"No, I don't mind _you_ coming around."_

_"Hey! It's my favorite sourwolf!"_

_"Come here."_

He _knew_ what it did to Derek, he must, but on Stiles went, casually sending Derek into alternating paroxysms of joy and sulks that left him howling alone in his house, carving _want want want_ into the newly painted walls with his claws.

XXXXX

Stiles opened his window and peered out into the blackness.

"Derek!" he called, "come here, I know you're out there somewhere."

So Derek jumped in through Stiles' window. It was quiet, the sheriff gone, the rest of the house dark but for Stiles' room. Only the lamp on Stiles' desk was on, bathing the room in dim light that made Stiles look like he was made of gold. Stiles blinked, looking at Derek and making the shadows of his eyelashes dance across his cheeks.

Then he took off his plaid over shirt. Then the brown T-shirt underneath with the slogan "Don't Tase Me, Bro" peeling off. Then his belt. Then his pants, until Stiles was standing in the middle of his room, bare but for a pair of bone white boxers.

He jerked his head at Derek. "You too."

Derek's heart pounded. Stiles' heart didn't.

When Derek was stripped to his own underwear, Stiles pointed at the bed. "Get in."

Finally. _Finally_.

Derek slipped underneath the covers, breathing rapidly, watching as Stiles -gorgeous Stiles- turned off the desk lamp, then raised the other side of the blanket and curled up underneath it.

With a foot of space in between him and Derek.

And clearly no intention of moving.

"Well," Stiles chirped with false joviality. "Goodnight!"

"Bastard," Derek groaned.

Stiles just cackled, the vibrations of his shoulders rippling the blanket over Derek.

Derek lay awake the whole night, watching Stiles sleep comfortably, unmoving, on the other side of the bed. It would be so easy to just reach out and touch. Feel the firmness of the slim muscles underneath that skin. Maybe run a thumb over those red lips. Pull down the waistband of those boxers just a few inches, enough to-

But Stiles wouldn't want it. Derek could control himself for Stiles. He would.

Bastard. Sometimes Derek wondered why he even loved the guy.

XXXXX

I hope you liked it! Let me know what you thought. Not creepy enough? Too creepy? Positively adorable? The next chapter should be up in a few days, it just needs some tweaking.


	2. Chapter 2

Derek as a full wolf was quite something to see. Even Stiles could appreciate the raw energy that was released when Derek shifted into his Alpha form, and Stiles didn't appreciate much. Every last bottled up flicker of emotion that was trapped inside of Derek's humanity was released, the bottles smashed to the ground, shards of glass sent flying.

Stiles didn't follow Derek when he went bounding into the woods. Stiles may have been stronger than he looked, but he still wasn't going to run to try and keep up with a four legged wolf the size of a horse. No, Stiles would meander down the forest paths in the dark, breathing in the misty air until Derek reemerged from clusters of trees, snout newly bloodied each time, until his fur was almost entirely caked in the remains of unlucky rabbits and foxes and deer and raccoons and possibly someone's dog. Stiles knew because Derek would always leave a piece left over and offer it to him. Obviously, Stiles wasn't very impressed by the bloody limb or scrap of flesh, ripped and dripping, but he found a certain satisfaction in knowing that Derek, even boiled down to his essence, was devoted enough to bring back his kills.

There was some value in that. Stiles had known for a while that it was advantageous to befriend werewolves, and Derek's pack were especially greedy for attention, so easy to get close to, but Derek himself was the real prize. So magnificently twisted, and so dedicated to Stiles. All Stiles would ever have to do was point, and ask, and perhaps run a hand through Derek's hair, and Derek would do whatever he wanted.

There was a crashing noise in the distance. Derek. It was so hard for him to be quiet, to be subtle. He had never mastered the art of hiding like Stiles had. Derek flew out of a patch of brambles in front of him, and Stiles very almost nearly jumped. But he didn't. Derek loomed closer, panting, red-black sides heaving. He reared up and planted his front paws on Stiles' shoulders. It was heavy, but Stiles braced his feet and held steady. Derek snorted and bucked his head, displaying the offering clenched between his jaws. A shattered piece of antler.

Not so bad, actually. Stiles took it, and Derek howled in delight, licked his face -to Stiles' disgust- and disappeared into the shadows again.

Encounters like that worried Stiles. They gave him the impression that for all that Derek would do anything for him, Stiles might do the same right back. Stiles wasn't built for _reciprocation_, he wasn't supposed to care if others were _happy_, what was happiness good for anyway? Yet he just might want Derek to find it. Or even to be the one to give it to him.

XXXXX

"We were in this bar outside of Kansas," Derek began on a chilly night, four days after the full moon. "Even though we couldn't get drunk, Laura liked to go to bars anyway. She said she liked the ambiance or something." He heaved a sigh. "I don't know. She'd just go to bars, and she'd take me along when she didn't want guys hitting on her. But there was this one guy, and he didn't give a damn if Laura looked like she was with someone or not," Derek inhaled deeply. It was raining outside, so loud, like buckets were being emptied. "He grabbed her ass, then I took him outside and broke both of his arms in at least two places and smashed his hands. Laura wasn't bothered by the ass grab, but she was bothered by me assaulting some random guy with a trucker hat. She probably had a point. I was just looking for a reason to hurt somebody. The guy's hand could have just slipped, for all I care, but I still would have broken it."

Stiles reached across the bed and stroked his knuckles down Derek's bare chest. After weeks of lying in Stiles' bed, with Stiles' teasing touches, Derek had almost managed to get used to it, even if his chest always swelled with a half-crippled hope every time Stiles drew near. "Yeah? Go on."

Derek shook his head hopelessly. "I just got so _angry_ I had to hurt somebody, and he was there. That's all there is to it."

Stiles rolled over so his front was pressed up against Derek's side. Derek's breath caught. This was new. It was so much more than Stiles had ever given before, and Stiles was so much warmer than Derek thought he'd be.

"Sometimes I really wish I could give a damn for real," Stiles breathed, so so softly that even Derek wasn't sure if he heard it.

Derek turned his face to look at Stiles properly. It was maddening, Stiles being so close and yet not allowing Derek to _take_ like he wanted to.

"I like you not giving a damn," Derek whispered. "It means you aren't breakable. I'm breakable. Sometimes I just want to explode and take everybody else with me."

Stiles was silent for a few minutes, and Derek was afraid he'd done something wrong, until Stiles narrowed his eyes, cocked his head at Derek, and said, "But you know, I think out of everybody I know, I have the most in common with you."

There Stiles went, _saying things_ again. It was going to drive Derek crazier than he already was, and Stiles _knew it_.

But then.

But _then_.

Stiles' eyes flickered for a second, as though he was weighing something in his mind, then he raised an arm, and made a beckoning motion with a hand. "Just come here."

Derek turned into Stiles' arms, and they wrapped, thin but strong, around his waist, one thumb stroking back and forth like a metronome.

"Are-are you _letting me_?" Derek asked, because for as much that he _wanted_, so _much_, he wouldn't dare cross Stiles.

"Yes."

Derek's eyes burned red. Yes. _Yes_. Glory of glories, _yes_. He ran greedy hands across Stiles' body, taking in as much of him as he could. The slope of his back, the shell of his ear, the crevice behind his knee that wasn't ticklish like Stiles always claimed. Derek stopped, mouth just an inch away from Stiles', taking him in. Stiles, with his ruthless hands and cruel laugh, Stiles, _his_, finally_. _Stiles... whose heart was still beating so slowly, so calmly. Unaffected.

Was this just another game for him? Throwing a bone to a dog? Good boy, let's string you along on your leash for a few blocks further? A hot, pooling rage melted through Derek's chest, and he looked straight into Stiles' cool eyes, and said poisonously, "So you really are just 'letting me.' Going to lie there while I have my fun?"

Stiles shrugged. _Shrugged._ "I'm not really into it, but if you wanna be."

Derek growled. Fine. Fine. He had Stiles' permission, and by God, Derek was going to exploit it. He bit into Stiles' mouth viciously, and Stiles let it fall open, let Derek explore it like he'd wanted to for so long. He would consume Stiles, get as close as he could to his perfection, even if it could never want him back. Derek rolled on top of the younger man, letting his weight press down on him fully, and traced Stiles' ribs with his claws, scratching little red lines that Stiles would be proud of. The claws traveled upwards, and traced the line of Stiles' jugular vein.

Stiles' breathing quickened.

It would be so easy to press a thumb into that smooth, soft skin and let Stiles bleed out. He could watch the slow, slick spread of blood down Stiles' neck, and if he got tired of it, he could cut deeper, until he reached the carotid artery, where the blood was held at a higher pressure, and would spray onto the ceiling and wall like so much paint.

Stiles' heart stuttered.

Or to just rip his whole head off and be done with it. There would be no more aching need if the object of his want was gone entirely.

Wait.

Derek listened closer, laying his head against Stiles' chest, keeping his hands at Stiles' throat. There it was. behind his ribcage, Stiles' heart was running faster than normal, and sounded ever so slightly unsteady.

"Derek," choked out Stiles' voice from above him. "Don't stop, why did you stop?"

And the world tilted on its axis. Derek felt like there should have been some sort of shining light, an upswell of music, a celebration breaking out on the street. Stiles _wanted _ something, and that something was Derek.

Slowly, carefully, because he wanted to capture this moment, because he was afraid of sending Stiles back into apathy, Derek raised himself back up to Stiles' level, and kissed him. Softly. Testing.

Stiles kissed back. He kissed back, and Derek could feel the blood flying through the other man's veins, rushing under his lips, flushing his cheeks. Stiles wasn't just _letting_ Derek close anymore, and Derek felt like flying.

XXXXX

Afterwards, they watched the sun rise through Stiles' window, gray, and muffled by clouds. Stiles was still draped over Derek's torso, breathing heavily as their sweat cooled.

Derek steeled himself. "Why?"

Stiles lazily stroked down Derek's side. "Why do we do anything? I actually wanted human contact. Haven't really done that before, thought I'd go with it."

It wasn't much, but it was something, and it was something that Derek would keep if his life depended on it.

XXXXX

Derek couldn't keep his hands off of Stiles after that. Stiles even reciprocated most of the time. It made the pack very uncomfortable. The first afternoon that Stiles had waltzed into the house, hopped onto the couch next to Derek, and was promptly pulled into Derek's lap, Erica, Boyd and Scott, sitting across the coffee table from them, gaped.

_"Since when has this been a thing?"_

_"Stiles? Stiles?"_

_"Called it."_

_"You did not!"_

_"This doesn't make any sense!"_

_Stiles twisted in Derek's lap to look at him, and grinned goofily. "Der-bear, did you not tell them anything? Rude. Now we've scarred the puppies for life. I'll bet if I-" he leaned down and licked up Derek's cheek. The action was greeted by a disgusted groan and a call of "dude" before Stiles returned to his upright position. "Now Scott's not gonna be able to look me in the eyes, Derek. Do you want to be responsible for that? Do you?" _

_It was Derek's turn to shrug. "They know now."_

_Erica raised her eyebrows, tangling a blonde strand of hair around her finger. "You two are so cute."_

_Derek chuckled. That wasn't the word he'd use, but alright. _

_Scott rolled his eyes. "I'm, uh, happy for you guys I guess. But Stiles, dude, you didn't even tell me you liked him! Breaking the bro-code man."_

_Boyd just nodded to himself, smiling slightly. _

_Erica gasped and clapped her hands. "When everyone else gets here, can we act like it's totally normal and just weird Jackson, Lydia and Isaac out?"_

_"Sweet idea!" Stiles crowed. "And we'll be all, 'what are you looking at?' and I'll be all 'I'm just casually sitting on Derek's lap, we do this all the time, didn't you know?' and they'll be all 'waah?' You, Reyes, are secretly evil aren't you?"_

_"Derek," Boyd asked quietly, "why are you laughing?"_

From then on, Derek tended to pull Stiles into involved PDA sessions. He couldn't be blamed, really. Stiles was more responsive when there were others around. In private, it was often hit or miss. Stiles wasn't in the mood more often than he was, but in front of his the pack, he played the horny seventeen year old, and Derek had never been more thankful for teenage stereotypes in his life.

That said, he didn't really like having to show Stiles off the way he did. Sure, he got a reaction, but Stiles was _his_. Nobody else should be allowed to see the way Stiles groaned when Derek fit a hand around the base of his neck, or pressed a thumb under his eye, ready to gouge if need be. Well, the others thought that Derek was stroking Stiles' cheekbone, but his point still stood. If Derek could have his way, he would have happily locked the man up somewhere out of sight, just for Derek.

Derek voiced these thoughts one evening to Stiles, as he was driving the man home in his camaro.

Stiles had started the conversation, leaning back in the jet black passenger seat, looking like some sort of amused prince, reclining in a throne. "Somebody was enjoying his PDA today."

"I don't like it." Derek replied, his eyebrows drawing together.

Stiles' index finger reached across the car and stroked the wrinkle between Derek's eyebrows. "Why not? I got the impression you were liking it very much."

Derek's brow softened against his will. "Only I should be able to see you like that, not everybody else."

Stiles' finger disappeared, and Derek suddenly wanted it back. Now he had displeased the prince, and may have hell to pay. "I know why you do it though," Stiles said softly. "It's sort of desperate, don't you think?"

Letting out a ragged breath, Derek countered, "I do what I have to."

Stiles laughed, the sound as cutting and sharp as it was full of mirth. Then he glanced over and saw that Derek was still looking straight faced, vaguely troubled, and Stiles got very quiet.

"Derek, do you want to make me do something I don't want to do?"

"No."

"Then why are you trying?"

Derek wasn't sure what to say to that. A roiling panic started in his gut. If Stiles was feeling suffocated...

"Derek, let's not pretend we don't know what's going on here." Stiles voice was suddenly very close, breath against Derek's ear. He was having trouble focusing on the road. "I pull your lead, and you follow. I don't want your tongue in my mouth 24/7, Derek. I'm still getting used to wanting it at all. I don't let people close. You happen to be the exception, but I still say how much you get to break my rules."

Just as he finished, the car pulled up in front of the Stilinski house. Derek felt cowed, chastised, and more desperate than ever to keep Stiles around him _at all times_, so he was reluctant to press the button that unlocked the car doors. But he did, because Stiles was right, and Derek would do anything Stiles told him to.

He was startled by the sudden, ardent press of lips against his, Stiles practically climbing into the driver's seat to say his goodbye with his mouth and hands and _hips_.

Then Stiles pulled free. "Love you, mean it," he whispered against Derek's lips, then was striding out of the house, cool as a faraway planet.

Derek slammed his head back against the headrest. "Bastard."


	3. Chapter 3

I got a little bit excited about similes and symbolism in this one, bear with me.

XXXXX

"So..." Scott drawled, "how's it going with Stiles?"

Derek groaned internally. Scott seemed to have decided that he and Derek could bond over gossiping about their relationships, and Derek did not appreciate it. "It's great, we go out into the woods and kill small animals every Friday. It's a standing date. I catch them faster, but Stiles has some wicked tricks up his sleeve that are pretty impressive. Then once we're done, we get naked on the forest floor and-"

"Okay!" Scott called out, face scrunched up. "You have a really twisted sense of humor, man. Of course, now you're dating Stiles, I just know you're a big softy on the inside. Come on, just tell me you're treating him right. Don't want me to have to set you straight, do you?" Scott joked, waving a reprimanding finger. "If you hurt him, I will end you and all that."

"Scott."

"What?"

"Just shut up until the rest of the pack gets here."

They do, and talk quickly turned to the hunter nearing their territory. Chris Argent, now that they had properly negotiated a treaty with them, had turned out to be a valuable ally in that he would tip them off when a hunter came into the area. Technically the hunter was within her rights to go after the pack, since they had killed one of her own, but it had been the hunters who had antagonized the pack in the first place, so the whole situation had devolved into a great big finger pointing mess that Derek was sick of. As far as he was concerned, the hunter, should she come to close, would have to be sent on her way. If "her way" happened to be into the ground, then so be it.

"So," Isaac said, "Mr. Argent said that she's probably here just for vengeance reasons. I don't know if we can negotiate with that."

"She probably isn't in the mood to make nice when we killed her sons," Allison agreed.

"Well actually," Scott interjected, "I guess it was just Stiles that killed them."

"Scott!" Isaac hissed, glancing at Stiles.

"No, I get it guys," Stiles said in that cheery voice that sounded even more false than the one he normally used with the pack. "I'm her number one target. Numero uno. Victim-to-be number one. But!" he clapped his hands, "we'll find a way around it, right guys?"

Boyd nodded placidly. "Right."

"I should think so." Erica's voice was sharp and vitriolic.

"Don't worry Stiles," Allison reassured him.

"We got your back, bro," Scott and Isaac chorused in unison.

Derek's arm just tightened around Stiles until the man was in danger of being crushed. Even after the meeting was over, Stiles didn't poke fun at Derek for his twitchiness about the whole affair, just leaned into Derek's side, adding to his warmth in the drafty, half-burnt house.

XXXXX

Derek was fairly sure this was what being buzzed felt like. He wouldn't know exactly, but he felt unusually giddy and impulsive, perhaps a touch unattached to his body. The almost winter air that blew in with them wound its way around the heated air of Stiles' living room, the contrasting temperatures sending shivers down his body, disorienting him.

"Well I am just covered in blood." Stiles observed dryly. "To the sink, then."

They stumbled into the kitchen, still breathing heavily. Derek took a moment to revel in the sight of Stiles fiddling with the sink, looking like some otherworldly creature, tragically displaced and brought down to their mundane world of small-town kitchens and slaughter hidden behind trees. Thin and pale, with slick redness on his arms, Stiles was a well-used weapon, sleek and deadly and just leaning against the counter. Before Stiles moved his hands underneath the flow of water, he paused, running a finger through the coat of blood on his skin, leaving blurred trails and patterns behind before raising the finger and tracing it down Derek's forehead, a crimson line bisecting his face.

Stiles trailed his finger further down, running it over Derek's nose, then the divot underneath it, then both lips and across his chin, all with a head-tilted, eyebrows furrowed expression. Like he didn't know what he was doing, but wanted to all the same.

The tap ran on in the background, unused.

It was as though he was moving through water, but Stiles leaned forward all the same and gave Derek a peck on his bloody lips, sending shockwaves down Derek's body. Derek felt anointed, blessed, sanctified.

"God," he breathed when Stiles pulled away. "You're perfect, you know that? Perfect, perfect," he mumbled into Stiles' cheek, his forehead, his lips. Derek wanted to consume it all, have it for his own, anything, if he could keep these hushed moments between them two.

Stiles' eyes were closed when Derek drew away, and Stiles silently turned and washed the blood and gore off of his face, where Derek had held him with his own red-encrusted hands.

Derek was sorry to see his marks go. No matter how close he got to Stiles, he would want him closer. On nights when the Sheriff was on duty -which came so suspiciously frequently that Derek suspected Stiles was manipulating the Sheriff's shift schedule somehow- Derek would curl up behind Stiles on his bed, one arm tight around Stiles' stomach, the other positioned so that his hand landed right over his heart. They would lie in the darkness, sleepily overheating, and Derek would just pull himself closer to Stiles' prone body. Stiles never seemed to get hot anyway, so it was just Derek suffering from being so close, just Derek sweating under the pressure of two blankets, a comforter and a Stiles, and Derek didn't mind the heat if he could press himself into the muscles of Stiles' back, and trace his fingers over his chest, fantasizing about carving his name there with his claws. A _Derek_ over Stiles' heart, written in blood, a mark Stiles could never toss away like so much unwanted emotional baggage.

He had tried once. He'd gotten halfway through the curve in the D when Stiles had smacked his hand away and insisted Derek get out of bed to find some antibiotics and a bandage.

XXXXX

The morass of people flooding out of lacrosse games was always difficult to navigate, but Stiles braved the flood, twisting his head around, trying to find Derek. Among his peers and pack mates, Stiles could look desperate to find his boyfriend and no one would bat an eye. It's just Stiles, trying to find that handsome, rakish fellow Derek Hale. I'd try to find him too, they'd say. What a looker.

As if Stiles cared what Derek looked like. But he couldn't say that he was looking for Derek, the one person in this godforsaken town who understands any part of me, Derek who is the first person I want to see when I get out of a lacrosse game because he's the only one whose opinion on that goal I pretended to miss is important. He couldn't say that he didn't want Derek to see Stiles looking for him at all, lest the man start thinking that Stiles loved him, and Stiles still wasn't sure about that one.

He wasn't sure what love was at all. But then again, who did know? Was it love that set Stiles' feet walking in Derek's direction the minute he caught sight of that black head of hair? Was it love that had him berating Derek in the car about letting Erica hang off of him like a handsy monkey on a very attractive tree? Was it love that had entranced Stiles so that night he wiped the blood from his kill across Derek's face?

XXXXX

So. What remains is the concluding chapter and possibly (_possibly_) an epilogue. BUT! This is where you come in, readers. Do Derek and Stiles get a happy ending (well, something close, since obviously a typical sunshine and rainbows happy ending would be weird in this story,) or do they get a poetically tragic ending? I think both could work, but I've got such exciting ideas for both options that I can't make up my mind so I'm letting the internet make my decisions for me. Review/vote below.


	4. Chapter 4

The stillness of the night was making Derek restless. He had been through these forests so many times that he could no longer appreciate their placid beauty, or the motionless way that the trees would hold themselves, suspended until a dark breeze whistled through them and set the needles aflutter. Instead, every rustle or crack of a twig from the other werewolves set him on edge, so loud were they in the relative silence. He had been distracted lately from training, and while he wouldn't give up his time with Stiles for anything, surely he could find a few extra hours here and there to educate the noisy little kids on walking silently. They couldn't patrol the perimeter of Stiles' house with any kind of effectiveness if all they heard was each other stomping around, rather than the murderous hunter looking to bring an end to Stiles.

That thought set Derek even more on edge and restless. Chris had estimated that she would arrive in Beacon Hills within the week, and the week was quickly coming to a close, meaning that she should show up outside of Stiles' house any day now, hell-bent on murder.

Derek glanced behind him, up at where Stiles' bedroom window hung, a dark, reflective square. If Derek couldn't smell him ever so slightly, he would be worried about not being able to see the man. As it was, Derek just wished that Stiles had let him stay in his room, instead of kicking him out to patrol the woods with the other pack members. No explanation, just a muttered _out_ and a thumb jerked at the window.

There would be time to stress about that later. Derek could howl and wish and bash at the still charred parts of his house as much as he needed once the hunter had been taken care of.

Out of the corner of his eye, Derek saw Isaac jerk and lift his nose into the air, cocking his head. Isaac whipped his head towards Derek.

"Wolfsbane," was his hoarse whisper.

She was here. This was it, Derek would make that woman pay for daring to come near Stiles. She would pay in skin and muscle and blood and organs and marrow and life.

Derek passed the message down to Boyd, who passed it to Erica, who passed it to Scott, who passed it to Jackson. Soon enough, they were gathered around Isaac, who pointed northeast. They set off at a dead sprint, hoping to head the hunter off before she got too close to Stiles. Derek's heart was beating far faster than it needed to be, even for a sprint, but none of the others noticed or cared.

It was a hunt, Derek realized, with the hunter as prey. The pack wasn't used to hunting in a group, or hunting at all. The teenagers preferred to frolic in their wolf forms like a pack of dogs. Ridiculous. They would learn what it really meant to capture a kill tonight.

The scent of wolfsbane in the air was potent, and underneath it, Derek could smell leather, metal, gunpowder, old fur, and, oddly, lavender. It was making his head reel, the knowledge that she, the hidden threat lurking around corners for weeks, was almost within sight.

And then she was.

The hunter had the look of a hardy old grandma, with long gray hair in a tight bun, and creases down her face that looked carved in with a knife. Derek would be happy to carve them in deeper with his claws. How dare she stand there, gun with wolfsbane bullet held tight in her right hand, a knife in her left, calm like she hadn't a doubt in the world that she would walk away in one piece.

Derek growled and leaped for her, clawed hands already outstretched to slash at her throat, her stomach, her face, anything, when Scott grabbed him by his _back belt loop_ of all things, and hauled Derek back.

"Derek," he hissed, as though the hunter weren't close enough to hear anyway, "we said we were going to try to _negotiate _first."

Scott. Scott, wanting to be a hero. Stupid, stupid Scott. Derek lunged again, only to be hauled back by Scott and Boyd this time.

"I sense some dissent in the ranks," the hunter noted wryly, her thin mouth pulled up into a dry smirk.

"Shut up," Derek snarled.

Jackson stepped forward, hands up in a placating gesture that somehow managed to look like he was patronizing her. "Look, lady. We just wanna have a talk about you and our... friend Stiles."

The hunter's expression was growing darker and darker. "I'm not a child, pretty boy. I know what's going on here. I'm willing to negotiate."

"Great!" Scott exclaimed, eyebrows raising in an expression of shocked delight. "Man, we're so used to hunters being unreasonable. It's really all just a big misunderstanding really."

Nodding slowly, the hunter replied, "Is that so? Well, I've already got some terms for you. Give me the Stilinski boy, and I will let you go, so long as you don't harm any humans. I'm not much for code breaking," she said, spreading her armed hands magnanimously. "I just want my eye for an eye."

Scott bristled immediately. Derek agreed with him and lurched forwards again. The hunter's arm shot up and pointed the gun straight at Derek.

"Restrain. Your. Alpha," she gritted out. "We _are_ negotiating, aren't we?"

Boyd redoubled his efforts holding Derek back. His hands were slipping. Boyd may have been a big guy, but Derek was an Alpha. An Alpha who would only allow the woman's heart to beat for a few minutes more.

"We aren't giving you Stiles," Isaac said quietly. "He's a really gentle guy. He only shot those two hunters-"

"My _sons_," the hunter interjected.

Isaac took in a slow breath through his nostrils and changed back to full human in some futile effort to relate to her. "Your _sons_, because they were trying to hurt us. He was just looking out for his friends."

"And I'm looking out for mine," the hunter shot back. "Give me the Stilinski boy."

"He's just a kid!"

"Who _killed my sons_. We're talking in circles." The hunter cocked her pistol, still pointing at Derek's chest. "Do you want me to make you all a pack of Omegas because of your loyalty to a murderer?"

"Hey now," came a voice from behind the hunter. "Don't knock their loyalty. They're very good at it. My own little soldiers. Wolf soldiers. Soldier wolves? Wolf Soldiers."

The hunter looked behind her and immediately swung her weapon around so it was pointing straight at Stiles, standing there so innocuously in his spiderman pajamas, with what looked like his father's service pistol leveled straight at her forehead.

Stiles _smirked_, and Derek wasn't sure whether he wanted to throw Stiles over his shoulder to get him to safety, or throw Stiles over his shoulder so he could go rip his clothes off. Derek just _couldn't handle_ Stiles when he was holding a weapon with a smile on his face and destruction in his heart.

"So." Stiles said. "You've got a plan for me, huh?"

"Damn right I do," the hunter said, any trace of congeniality gone from her voice.

If Derek had been even half a second later, if he had not heard the creak of the ligaments in her finger as they bent around the trigger of the gun, Stiles would have been dead on the forest floor. But Derek reached the hunter just before she pulled the trigger that final, fatal millimeter.

Then, time slowed down. There was ample time to see Scott and Boyd still reeling behind him from when he had suddenly broken free, Erica's expression of shock, Isaac's tight jawed look of focus, Jackson's disapproving face, Stiles, dark and beautiful, outlined by the half moon, before Derek grabbed the hunter's arm and jerked it to the side. Derek had the necessary moments to watch Stiles' face transform from satisfaction to horror when the hunter, tired of being prevented from carrying out her mission, turned the gun on Derek instead.

Derek smelled the sickly, potent scent of the wolfsbane coming through the gun barrel long before the bullet itself flew out and lodged itself, poisonous and determined, in the spot where his collarbone met his throat.

Falling backwards, Derek had time, even then, to turn his gaze to Stiles. Stiles would have scoffed at him, at Derek being such a romantic that he wanted the last sight he ever saw to be Stiles. But dying men were allowed their last wishes, and if Derek wanted to see Stiles before he went on, then he would.

Bittersweet was probably the name for what Derek was feeling. He wasn't sure. His mind. Was. It. Stiles. Stiles, who Derek never _had_ the way he wanted, Stiles. _Stiles. _Who had been there, _Stiles_ however brief. Who had made Derek so, so _Stiles_ happy, and driven him mad all _Stiles_ the same. _Stiles, Stiles Stiles Stiles_

Strangely enough, it seemed that some high power was smiling on Derek just then, because the last thing he saw before he went to heaven was Stiles wrenching the gun from the hunter's hand and pulling the trigger on his own.

Heaven was not what Derek had thought it would be. He also hadn't thought he'd end up there at all. But what else could it be, if he was lying there, seeing Stiles go utterly wild in a way that the Stiles on earth could never have done? Bullets were whizzing into the hunter's head, chest, thighs, and over again, making her body convulse as each new fragment of metal buried itself into flesh. Overkill. Nothing like Stiles would have ever chosen to do, but here in Derek's heaven, Stiles could be passionate, could go into a rage for Derek like Derek always would for him. Here, Stiles cared enough to pull the knife from the hunter's other hand and rip into her with it further, until the whole scene was nothing but black and red and the white of Stiles' skin, turning redder and redder as he went on. Here, Stiles brandished the knife at any of the pack members who got too close, teeth bared in a pained rictus, tears running down his cheeks.

Here, Isaac said urgently _his heart is still beating._

And Stiles looked up in shock, screaming _why didn't you say anything. _

And Stiles ran, ran to _his side_, like he never had in life, fumbling with a bullet and a lighter tossed by Erica's shaking hands.

And Derek realized, after he was done screaming, and the flesh around his neck was starting to close up again, and Stiles was gripping him close around his shoulders, whispering urgently into his ear, "Never again, don't you almost die on me again or I'll kill you myself, you _bastard,_" Derek realized that he had not been in Heaven after all.

He raised his shaky arms just enough that they could flop over Stiles in a weak return of the hug that was squeezing out his breath. Then he let himself listen to the increasingly frantic wailing of the pack.

"What the fuck, Stiles, what the ever-loving fuck!"

"She- oh my god, is that her _hand_ over there?"

"I'm not going to sleep tonight-"

"Totally... I... what... you didn't have to-"

"Scott, did you know about this?"

"Don't look at me like that! I'm as freaked out as you are! What the hell, Stiles?"

"At least Derek's-"

"Don't start with that Isaac, you aren't allowed to look on the bright side when we're dealing with fucking _murder_! You can't call... all of that... self defense. Seriously, what are we supposed to even do about this?"

"Shut up Jackson! Just... we'll figure something out."

"Temporary insanity?"

Stiles sighed, hot breath puffing against Derek's ear. He pulled himself off of Derek, sticking slightly as the drying blood on Stiles'... everything stuck to Derek's skin. Stiles looked at the pack, his eyes growing cold.

"Shut up, all of you." It said something that it was only when Stiles used that tone of voice that they listened to him. "Just go."

"Stiles, I think you're in shock or something."

Stiles eyed Erica icily. "I'm not in shock, I don't regret it, Derek and I will clean up the body, now go."

"But-"

"Go!" Stiles flung the knife that was still in his hand at Erica's head. It fluttered her hair as it flew past her to embed itself in the thick black bark behind her. "I won't miss next time. Go."

The pack fled, even though Stiles didn't have a second knife to throw.

"That's going to be a problem in the future," Derek commented. They would deal with it later. For now, Derek was having trouble processing more than one thing at a time, so he would concentrate on feeling Stiles pressed up against him for now, hot and sticky with sickly sweet redness.

Stiles hummed in agreement, and nestled his head into Derek's neck, so that his words were slightly muffled when they came out. "I wasn't faking."

"None of it?"

"None of it. She shot you and I felt like I couldn't breathe. I _cried_, Derek. I haven't done that involuntarily since I was six."

Stiles had cried for him. Derek had managed to crack open his ribs and climb inside of his chest and squeeze at his heart until Stiles had cried and fought and been driven as mad by Derek as Derek had been driven mad by Stiles.

Prodding his side with a gore-encrusted finger, Stiles muttered, "But don't go buying me a promise ring any time soon, buddy."

Derek squeezed Stiles back as hard as he could, kissed him hard with the taste of blood in his mouth, and raked his claws down Stiles' back, leaving behind scratches and dirt. They didn't need Heaven. They had something close enough right here, bloody and close and stifling as all Hell.

XXXXX

Phew. Well, there it is, the last official chapter of this story. I've got to say, for somebody who wrote a psychos in love story, it sure weirds me out to write intense violence. Just... *shudder.* But, you do what you have to do for the plot, you know? Anyways, I'm going to add one little extra chapter to the end of this, and then I'm checking the "complete" bubble. Prepare yourselves, ladies and gentlemen.

Also, this was the "happy ending." Can you tell?


	5. Chapter 5

So, I asked you guys whether you'd prefer a happy ending or a sad one, and the result was a resounding "happy ending!" but... I got ideas, and so this is the alternate ending to Quiet on the Inside. The unhappy one. If you liked the last ending, you might want to stick with that one and pretend that this one doesn't exist. This picks up a little ways into chapter four.

XXXXX

If Derek had gotten there half a second earlier, he could have taken the gun out of the hunter's hands before she pulled the trigger. It would have been easy, a twist of the arm. But he was stupid, and slow, and now Stiles was on the forest floor, bleeding out from a gunshot wound in his collarbone.

A feeling that was almost like rage overtook him. There was no lust for blood or for breaking, only the immovable certainty that the woman before him, with her self-satisfied smile and hands that smelled of gunpowder, had to be eliminated.

So he eliminated her. It was simple. He wrenched the gun from her hand and used it to put a hole in her forehead.

Stiles would have been so proud.

Stiles who was bleeding out by the second. Derek rushed to the spot on the forest floor that Stiles was quickly staining red. He could sense the other pack members drawing closer, fretting and worrying and crying. They shouldn't get to see Stiles. Stiles was Derek's, and he, only he, should be allowed to see Stiles' last moments, watch the man he loved slip away and hear his heartbeat slow until it finally stopped.

Derek twisted around so that he could bare his teeth and snarl. "Stay _back_."

Scott looked as though he was going to come forward anyway, but Isaac grabbed his arm and pulled the boy back.

Honey brown eyes stared up at Derek blearily. The words were slurring, Stiles was already drifting away: "Come here."

Of course, Derek did, leaning in as far as he could manage, wrapping his hand around Stiles' paling hand as he did so. If they only had these last few moments, Derek was going to get as close as he could. He had never gotten his chance to really claim Stiles as his own, to crack open his ribs and climb inside of his chest and squeeze at his heart until Stiles was driven as mad by Derek as Derek had been driven mad by Stiles. Now he knew he never would. But this was as close as he could get, so Derek held his face a scant inch from Stiles' own, held his hand, tried to take in as much of Stiles' scent as he could while the man was still breathing, and asked, "What? What Stiles?"

"Never... let you in... way I should've... no time..." Stiles whispered, either out of a need for privacy from prying werewolf ears, or from an inability to take in enough breath to speak at full volume.

"It's... fine, Stiles. Nothing to be done about it now. I love you, I love you," Derek said back frantically. Stiles could go at any second, and Derek wanted to stuff his ears with devotion, not hear Stiles try to fix everything in his dying breaths.

"Shh..."

Derek dutifully shut his mouth.

"M... lettin' you in... now. No time for bite... but y'could... end my sssuffering." Stiles made a motion with his face that looked something like a wink. "Know you... wanna."

Eyebrows rising in shock and what would have been delight at any other time, Derek gripped harder at his hand. "Really? _Really?_"

Stiles smiled and tilted back his head. "Yea..."

So Derek ripped Stiles' throat out with his teeth.

Now _there_ was a mark Derek could make that would stay. What a gift Stiles had given him, this chance to finally consume, _take_. Derek ripped into Stiles' chest with the hand that wasn't still wrapped around Stiles' cooling fingers, finally able to touch Stiles' distant heart. It was so easy to reach now. He was pulling Stiles into his world of savagery, ruled by claws and teeth and sharp things that ripped and tore without end, and it was glorious.

The smell of Scott curled through Derek's nostrils, and two hands clenched around his shoulders and pulled him back. Derek lashed out behind him, yelling something, he didn't know what, and Scott briefly let go, only to return, with more hands joining him. Derek thrashed and fought, hearing bones breaking. The pack was fighting back, probably trying to maim him or kill him for taking Stiles away from them. Let them try. Let them succeed. Derek didn't care as long as he could be near Stiles. Stiles' corpse.

A shudder of grief shot through Derek, and a collection of boiling hot tears fell from his eyes, streaking through the grit on his face. Shaking, he collapsed forward onto Stiles, wrapping around him as tightly as he could. Dead. Dead. No more. Nothing else. Not from Stiles, and not from Derek, either.

Voices clamored nearby as the claws and teeth of his pack tore at him, slicing muscle and skin rapidly, racing his healing.

"What have you _done_?"

"How could you? Derek! Derek!"

"Monster! Monster!"

"-pay for that!"

"Stiles! Stiles! Oh my god, Stiles!"

"You've almost got him!"

"One more hit!"

"There! You've got him!"

"He's down!"

"Holy shit."

XXXXX

_Epilogue_

Scott shuffled nervously over the lump in the ground. The pack had buried Derek and Stiles in a shallow grave, and Scott could smell the rotting flesh underneath. It made it hard to stand there in what black clothing he could scrounge up, and play like they were holding a funeral like any other.

Normal funerals weren't held in some god-forsaken corner of the woods that smelled like guts and blood. They were supposed to have flowers and universally sad faces and people in black suits and dresses. Instead, all Stiles got was a scattered collection of his friends, none human but Allison and Lydia, standing over a pile of loose dirt in black T-shirts and jackets. Stiles should have gotten a gravestone in the cemetery, right next to his mom's. He shouldn't have an unmarked resting place that he had to share with his murderer. The pack had tried to bury them separately, but Derek and Stiles had been holding onto each other so tightly that by the time the pack had returned with shovels, rigor mortis had set in, locking them together permanently. It had seemed like too much to break more of Stiles' bones trying to rip him away from Derek, so the two had been lowered awkwardly into the grave, an asymmetrical collection of limbs. At least they'd managed to put the hunter in a grave elsewhere.

Scott pulled a scrap of binder paper from his pocket. It had been folded and refolded so many times that it was as limp as the fabric of his shirt. "So, uh, I guess I wrote a eulogy," he began, unsure of how these things went. He glanced at Allison, and she gave him an encouraging smile, though her eyes stayed sad. "Er, Stiles was my best friend. Which you know already, so... the point is, he was a good guy. And he knew what he was getting into with us, so I guess it didn't surprise him that he'd die in something related to werewolves. I don't think he thought that he'd get ripped up by an Alpha werewolf too crazy to just give the guy the bite-"

"Scott," Isaac cut in, looking pained. "You said you weren't going to tear into Derek like this."

Scott flapped his arms hopelessly. "Man, I can't _not_ bring it up. The bastard _ripped Stiles' heart out_-" Scott's voice cracked, and Isaac came forward to put a hand on his shoulder.

He didn't want to deal with this. He couldn't just read his little eulogy about what an awesome guy Stiles had been and hold his shit together at the same time. Scott handed his piece of paper to Isaac and sat down on the ground. The rest of the pack followed suit, whether because they wanted to be closer to Stiles, or their legs were tired, Scott didn't know.

Isaac picked up from where Scott left off on the paper. "Stiles was the bravest guy I knew. He was a little odd sometimes, but that was what made him so cool. He didn't feel like he had to hide anything. He wore his heart on his sleeve, for better or for worse. I never thought I'd have to say goodbye when we were both just teenagers, but here we are," Isaac inhaled, looking up. "That's all it says. If... if it's okay, I'd like to say some things about Derek, too."

Scott wasn't happy about it, but Boyd and Erica looked at Isaac attentively from the ground, so Scott wasn't going to stop Isaac, even if it chafed to put that monster on the same level of Stiles.

Isaac scraped his foot over the ground, tracing the seam where the grave met the regular hard-packed dirt of the forest. "Derek had a lot of anger in him. It makes sense, I guess. He was never a happy guy, you know? Some of that was his past, and some of it was just him, I think. He... felt a lot of stuff. And I respected him, despite all of that crazy." The teenagers listening chuckled weakly. "You know," Isaac continued, "I think he also really loved Stiles. Even... even at the very end. I've found sometimes there's a fine line between love and pain, and it was especially fine for Derek. Plus...I don't know if anybody else heard it, but he was telling Stiles he loved him right up until-" Isaac gestured at his throat. Well alright, Scott wouldn't have been able to say it either. "We'll never really understand what happened that night, but I want to believe that they died loving each other, in their own weird way, and that that would have been happy to be buried next to each other, even if it didn't happen the way they would have... have wanted."

Everyone was crying by that point. Even Scott, for all that he wanted to resent Derek with everything he had for landing the last blow on Stiles, for ripping him apart like so much tissue paper, for not giving Stiles the chance, however slim it may have been, of healing through the bite. It was hard to feel hatred when Isaac stood with pain in his eyes and spilled out words of healing.

XXXXX

Scott, hours later, was the last to leave the makeshift gravesite. He gazed at the squareish patch of dirt and said, "I'll come back and visit, buddy," he smiled fondly. "Maybe I'll even leave a ripped up squirrel or two, some sort of offering. I know you'd like that, ya little weirdo."

Scott patted the ground over the spot where he fancied Stiles' head lay, then walked out of the woods and into the sunlight.

XXXXX

And that's it! Thank you all for coming along on the ride. If you want more psychos in love, check out "Adore to See Your Eyes Fly" on ao3. 1001cranes is way better at this genre(?) than I am.

Parting review maybe?


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